The Mayan Secrets - Cussler Clive - Страница 13

In the morning, they drove to El Centro, the central part of the city, to shop. They found a number of small stores that had been designed, built, and stocked with American tourists in mind. They bought a number of souvenirs, all of them cheap replicas of Mayan artifacts — pots, bowls, wall hangings, mats, and fabrics that more or less reproduced Mayan art and writing. Everything bore images of Mayan kings, priests, and gods, but crudely and garishly painted. At a hobby shop, they bought a water-soluble acrylic paint set that included silver and gold paint and brushes.

At the hotel, Sam went to work on the genuine Mayan pot from the shrine. He painted designs and altered pictures to make the painting on the pot look as cheap and crude as the souvenirs he and Remi had bought. He used sparkly gold paint to cover the pieces of jewelry the Mayan king wore. Parts of his shield and war club Sam highlighted with silver.

When the paint was dry, Sam and Remi asked the concierge at the hotel where they could find a mailing company that would ship their souvenirs home. He replied that the hotel would do this for them. Sam and Remi watched him pad a large packing box, load the pot into it, fill all the spaces around it with the mats, wall hangings, and fabrics, then fill the box the rest of the way with Styrofoam peanuts and seal it up. With the concierge’s help, Sam and Remi filled out the customs declaration, saying the contents were “souvenirs from Mexico,” and declared the price they’d paid to be under a hundred dollars.

They paid the cost of shipping the souvenirs to their house in La Jolla, gave the concierge a large tip, and went off to the beach to do some snorkeling in the shallows after their hot morning in the city.

That night, Sam and Remi called Selma from their room.

“Hi, you two,” Selma said. “What is it this time, a flood?”

“Not yet,” said Sam. “We just wanted you to know that we’ve sent some souvenirs from Yucatan to the house in La Jolla.”

“I’ll watch for them. Is this one big box?”

“Yes,” said Remi. “There’s some pottery, which we really don’t want broken.”

There was a very slight pause, during which they could tell that Selma had understood what the package was. “Don’t give it another thought. Are you on your way home?”

“As soon as we can get a flight,” Sam said.

“Have you given any thought to where you plan to sleep when you get to San Diego? The fourth floor of the house is still a process, not a product.”

“Until yesterday, we’ve been sleeping on the side of an active volcano,” Remi said. “We’ll manage.”

“You could stay at the Valencia Hotel. I can reserve a suite or even a villa. Then each day you can walk home across the lawn or down to the beach.”

“Sounds good,” said Remi. “If we rent a villa, will they let Zoltan stay with us?”

“I’ll see if they can arrange it. I can even bring him there to show them what an exemplary animal he is,” Selma said.

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” Sam said. “A hundred-twenty-pound dog who sits when you say sit is still a little scary.”

“I’ll sing his praises, then, and offer to put up a damage deposit.”

“Make sure it’s enough to cover any kindergartners he might eat.”

“Sam!” said Remi.

“We’ll call before we get on the plane.”

Sam used Remi’s computer to buy plane tickets home. Then he researched the names of American archaeology professors specializing in the Mayans. It was a pleasant surprise that one of the most distinguished seemed to be Professor David Caine at the University of California at San Diego. Sam e-mailed Dr. Caine and said that he and Remi had made an unusual find at Volcan Tacana, and attached the Mexican news article about it. He asked Caine if he would meet with them when they returned home. He asked Remi to read the e-mail before he sent it.

She did, and said, “My advice is, click send.”

“You don’t think we ought to include something about ourselves? Maybe list the places we’ve excavated in other countries and so on?”

“Nobody needs to do that anymore. When he reads this, he’ll be sitting in front of a computer. He can Google us and get much more than he wants to know.”

“I suppose.”

Within an hour, Professor Caine answered. He said he would be happy to meet with them and was eager to learn more about their latest find. Remi pointed at the screen. “See that? Our ‘latest find.’ He Googled us first thing.”

That afternoon, Sam and Remi checked out of the hotel and hired a taxi for the ride to the airport south of the city. The driver put their two backpacks into the trunk. As she was about to get into the cab, Remi hesitated for a second.

“What?” Sam said. “Something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Just a guy waiting outside the main entrance. When we came out, he ran.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. Down the street, I guess.”

“Could he be a parking attendant going to retrieve somebody else’s car?”

“Sure. That’s probably it,” she said. “I guess I’m a little jumpy today. Some of the experiences we’ve had lately…”

They got into the backseat, and the driver said in English, “Which airline?”

“Aeromexico.”

The cab dove off down the long driveway toward the federal highway. The airport was about ten miles away and the traffic was moving steadily, so they made good time. They looked out at the Gulf of Mexico and enjoyed the ride.

Just as they could see the airport ahead to their right, a black car came speeding up behind them. It pulled up beside them, and a stern-faced man in a dark suit gestured to them to pull over.

Their driver muttered, “Policia,” and coasted, looking for the best place to stop. Sam looked out the rear window and saw that as the cab pulled over, the black car pulled up behind them and came to a stop a few feet from their bumper. Two men got out. One walked up beside the window of the cab and held out his hand. The driver handed him his license. The man handed it back and glanced at the Fargos, sitting in the rear seat.

The second man stood behind their cab and to the right, with his hand on the gun in the holster at his belt. Remi whispered, “The guy back there is the one I saw running before.”

The man beside the driver said, “Abra el maletero.”

The driver pressed the button to pop the trunk. The man in back of the car unzipped their backpacks.

“What are you looking for?” asked Sam.

The man beside the driver glanced at him but said nothing. Sam opened the door an inch to step out, but the man threw his hip against it and slammed it shut, drew his gun, and held it on Sam.

Sam sat back in his seat and kept both hands in his lap. The man backed away from the window.

The cab driver said quietly, “Please, senor. Those men are not policemen. They’ll shoot all of us.”

They waited until the men put the two backpacks in the trunk of the black car, then got in and drove away. Sam said, “Who were they?”

“I don’t know,” said the driver. “Most of the time, we don’t have to deal with people like that. Everybody knows they’re here—narcotraficantes use this as a shipment point, Zetas come to town looking for somebody. Somehow, those two picked you. Maybe you can tell me why.”

Sam and Remi looked at each other grimly. “Just take us to the airport,” Sam said. “We have a plane to catch.”

When they arrived at the circular drive in front of the terminal, Sam handed the man a large tip. “Here. You earned this.”

As they entered, Remi said, “They had to be after the you know what.”

“I know,” said Sam. “If I ever run into Jose Sanchez again, I’ll be sure to thank him for all the free publicity he gave us. Let’s get to our gate before somebody else tries to murder us because of that stupid article.”

The flight home took eight hours, including a stop at Dallas — Fort Worth. As they flew in above San Diego after dark, they looked down at the lights of the city. Remi held Sam’s arm. “I missed this place,” she said. “I miss my dog. I want to see what they’ve done to our house.”